


Fallen Quite Hard

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 00:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The obligatory Coffee Shop AU.</p><p>Enjolras is halfway finished reciting half the content of his book when the ink-haired-sapphire-eyed barista shoves everything in front of him aside and dumps a large bowl of tomato bisque with a dozen of garlic breads and coffee in a modified styrofoam glass the size of Enjolras' head on the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen Quite Hard

**Author's Note:**

> this may or may not become a series, i'm not sure. i can be persuaded?

Enjolras is halfway finished reciting half the content of his book when the ink-haired-sapphire-eyed barista shoves everything in front of him aside and dumps a large bowl of tomato bisque with a dozen of garlic breads and coffee in a modified styrofoam glass the size of Enjolras' head on the table.

If it were anyone else, say, Courfeyrac – Enjolras would probably, nay, _definitely_ bite his head off, in the most literal context; all blunt teeth and raw human power, he shits you not. But as it is, the person who just shoves Enjolras' books away like they are nothing but distraction, is a stranger, attractive besides; all Enjolras can do is gape at the stranger, possibly also making the most unattractive face he's ever made in his life, because, _what_.

The stranger simply stares back at him, unflinching. He then proceeds to seat himself carefully on the booth opposite Enjolras', takes both of Enjolras' hands in his, and says, "You are emotionally constipated," in the I-am-being-reasonable-voice, reminding Enjolras of Combeferre, then adds; "Also, in five minutes you are going to pass out in exhaustion."

Enjolras stares. Blinks. Takes a minute to let the words being processed carefully in his brain, only to find it – his brain – incapable of processing anything. His head is a dizzy mess of everything, his throat dry, the pit of his stomach clenching in pain, and Enjolras has to take another moment to – take a deep breath, and steady himself, and –

The rough calloused hands covering his tighten, briefly, grounding him back to earth. Enjolras inhales, and blinks awake. The blue-eyed stranger eyes him warily.

"You've been here for fourteen hours. And by fourteen hours, I literally mean _fourteen fucking hours_. You came in just when I was starting my morning shift, and you're still here when I got in to start my _night_ shift. My friend, Jehan, claimed that he has refilled your cup more than fifty times tonight, so I guess he is the one to blame should you be diagnosed for caffeine poisoning. Are you still with me?"

At Enjolras' weak nod, the barista shakes his head. "Good. Now, listen: I am going to move over there right now and feed you. You are going to obediently open that pretty mouth of yours and swallow everything down. I don't care if it tastes like shit, or you don't like it, but you need to eat. Can you do that?"

Enjolras nods again before scooting over to make a room. The barista still seems surprised, despite all his bravado and confidence, but he moves to sit beside Enjolras all the same. He does not let go of Enjolras' hands completely, keeping his left curled around Enjolras' thin wrists while his right hand curls around the spoon, and Enjolras closes his mouth around the spoon without complain.

Once they are finished, and Enjolras has regained some footing and colours back to his face, the barista lets out a sigh of relief and lingers, uncertain. He looks back and forth between his hand around Enjolras' wrists then Enjolras' face. Enjolras studies the smile previously gracing the corner of the barista's lips, now pursed in thought, the shifty nervous movement his body makes as the silence stretches on.

His eyes, Enjolras thinks, deep blue but electric-bright, along with his very dark curls that look soft to the touch, are the decisive factors of Enjolras' next move. Before the barista can pull away from his grasp, Enjolras frees his wrists to envelope both of the barista's rough hands in his, mimicking his gesture precisely, smiles a little smile that feels warm even deep in Enjolras' chest, then pulls him in.

"Thank you. For the food, the coffee. And the feeding." The barista nods stiffly, flushes from the tip of his ears down to the V of his shirt, the jut of his collarbone – "You've been very kind," Enjolras tries again, when the barista cannot seem to find his voice, even though he has been so talkative before, while he was feeding Enjolras. "And I would like to have your number."

This time, the barista blinks, swallows. His expression turns closed and guarded, tight-lipped and unpleasant. "You don't have to do that. I mean, a thank you is enough, so –"

"Not as a thank you," Enjolras cuts him off, which is, _rude_ , he knows, but. "I would like to have your number because you are very attractive. You have a nice voice. And apparently you have a very, ah, _harsh_ opinion in the matter of politics, if the last thirty minutes of your rambling is any indication," the barista flushes three shades deeper, stuttering, but Enjolras tightens his grip. "Which is not something I am complaining about. I just wish you will tell me more, when I am not so exhausted and stressed-out during finals. So. Will you give me your number?"

"Uhm," blue-eyed replies, eloquently. Enjolras tries to suppress a smile and fails. "Yes, I – yes, okay, I think? You can have – you can have my number, it's uh," he snatches a napkin from the other side of the table, the stretching of his arm reveals a series of dark ink beneath the short blue sleeves riding up to his elbow.

Enjolras makes the mistake of staring too long, he doesn't realise the barista is offering the napkin awkwardly to his face until the barista nudges Enjolras' thigh with his knee.

"My name is Enjolras," he offers, typing the number scribbled on the napkin into his phone and, after some consideration, folds the same napkin into his pocket.

"I know, uh," the barista pauses, licks his lips, drawing Enjolras' gaze away from his eyes. "Your name and face are all over the campus, I mean, it's impossible not to know you." When the moment stretches on, awkwardly, with the barista's enormous very blue eyes staring at him in awe, Enjolras clears his throat pointedly.

"I would also appreciate it if you give me your name...?"

"It's Grantaire, or R for short." He – Grantaire – smiles. "So listen. Since the place is already closed like, half an hour ago, it's possible that my friend's already went first. No, I'm positive that my friend is already asleep now, safely in our dorm. You look like you won't be able to ride even if your life depends on it – _especially_ now that your life depends on it. And I know that we just know each other for like, a few minutes, but –"

"You can drive, I don't mind." Enjolras says, earnestly, and he really doesn't. Mind, that is. He's been under pressure for the past few weeks, studying non-stop and filling his stomach with nothing but caffeine and the mandatory sandwich break.

To find Grantaire here, in a small cheap coffee shop near the campus, taking care of him without asking for anything in return, just the safety of Enjolras' well being, is really nice. He is physically incapable of not trusting Grantaire. The gigantic blue eyes might also have something to do with it, Enjolras has a weakness for Grantaire's eyes.

"Yeah," says Grantaire, smiling in a way that lits his face alive. "Okay."

Enjolras finds himself smiling back in return.


End file.
